The Dew of the Morning
by Konoha's Kage
Summary: LightxMisaxL Threesome fluff, nothing explicit. Just philosophical rambling. Three people, three morning rituals, three perspectives, one relationship.
1. Misa: Security

Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note.

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><p><strong>The Dew of the Morning<strong>

Misa rarely woke up before her boys did. L was paranoid and eccentric enough to make the effort to pretend he'd been awake the whole night, even though they all knew it was impossible, the way they'd tired him out. Light needed more sleep than L, but less than her, and he dropped out and back in like clockwork regardless of how exhausted he was.

Sometimes, when Misa was really lucky, when just enough sunlight was floating into the room to nudge her awake, she would be able to catch a view like this.

Beautiful.

On one side, feathery jet-black hair splayed out on all sides, brushing up against papery skin and toying with the edges of her sunny locks. Only the tips of his fingers touched her, but they always gravitated towards her. He slept on his side, his legs pulled in as always, his head bowed towards her breasts. His mouth was open, to the point where his jaw touched his chest, which rose every three seconds to release a deep sigh.

L never slept in the middle because he hated being surrounded while he slept. Yet, Misa knew that when he fell asleep, the last thing he saw was always them, and he never turned away.

Light, on the other hand, didn't mind where he was, as long he could fall asleep with at least one of them to his chest, underneath his chin. Eventually he would sleep on his back, oftentimes resulting in one of the other two using him as a pillow.

She felt his heartbeat and his breath envelop her. Like the ebb and flow of the ocean, he was a constant that held her dreams in place. When he pulled out of slumber, his body would signal it with a low, rumbling snore. His breathing would become more pronounced, punctual, as he became more aware. His eyelids would slide up as luxuriously as a king's, and the morning light would reflect in little sparks against his muddy eyes.

Once Misa awoke, she resolved not to close her eyes, in order to drink in the sight of them as best she could. She dared not move, lest she disturb the metal chains that circled them, which were already warmed by their bodies.

Lying here, flesh against flesh, breath against breath, she lived. She knew that on her dying day, she would remember this moment as the last time she felt at home.


	2. Light: Control

Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note.

KK: I thought I was just going to leave this at the one-shot, but I decided I wanted to follow it up.

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><p><strong>The Dew of the Morning<strong>

When he was a small child, Light's mother would help him into his own clothes. For some reason, whenever he, L and Misa are preparing the day, Light takes on the task his mother did of dressing them. He has never done this in any of his past relationships, and he doubts he ever would.

Though he doesn't exactly lay out Misa's clothes for her, he enjoys watching her pull out clothes and ask for his opinion. She holds the scanty garments to herself, watching as he envisions her in each and waiting for his nod of approval.

Nearly all of her clothes need to be wrapped around her or slid up from the bottom, so Light is always seeing her face. With his grip on the strings of her corset, he has complete control over her middle section, but he doesn't exploit the fact. As he tightens the leather around her waist, she is bracing herself against the sink or a mirror. Though she plays the part of the submissive woman, Misa has never avoided Light's gaze if she could help it. When she holds her arms up to lift her hair, his fingers brush her fragile neck to slide a metal chain necklace over it. She leans into the touch, but she locks eyes with him through the mirror – one part trusting, two parts confident.

Sometimes she lets him pick out her underwear; a task Light takes on a bit more seriously than he probably should. He can't help but think of the people Misa associates with, who continually undress her with their eyes. Light never picks out any of the black lacy stuff – it's simple, easy to envision. He never wants any of those perverts' imaginings to be correct. Only he and L know what color or fabric is touching her.

He gives L less control over his clothes than Misa. Though L's closet of white and blue has no variety, Light still insists on picking them out for him. He makes sure L never wears anything dirty, anything too wrinkled.

There is a strange sort of appeal to holding one of L's thick white sweaters, sliding it down over his arms and over his head. For a split second, L disappears behind the white cloth, and emerges again, his hair sprouting up first. Light carefully slides the shirt down over his torso. As if he were a rare exotic bird that only Light could see, that he had to cover and hide away from prying eyes.

He is all too aware of gray eyes watching him when he kneels at L's feet, waiting for him to step into the pair jeans he has spread out for him. But it doesn't matter when he pulls them up, snowy-pale skin vanishing, and he stops at the thin trail of hair at L's navel. He pulls the zipper up and locks it in place, ignoring the way L's hands hover slightly over Light's work.

In an odd way, he feels a bit like a prince when he ties their shoes. One knee on the floor, it's like he's about to be crowned, or asking for the princess' hand. When he slides a pair of heels or boots over Misa's feet, he deigns to stroke the back of her knee to admire the art before him. Then he turns to tie L's laces, lightly rubbing his ankles which he knows will be reddened due to the man's hatred for socks.

But he doesn't know what he feels when they decide to return the favor. It's a mix of uncertainty, intrigue, when L slides his belt buckle in place, and when Misa reaches up to straighten his collar.

He can't look away from them, partly because of the awareness that he has fingers over his waist and around his neck. The other part is because – and he isn't sure he even wants to admit this to himself – he feels like a little boy at home again, loving hands brushing his hair and preparing him for the outside world.


End file.
